


When to Kiss, When to Kill

by VicStone



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amnesia, Brock Rumlow POV, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Dubcon Cuddling, Hurt Brock Rumlow, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, WinterCross, winterbones - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 04:08:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2567657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VicStone/pseuds/VicStone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of CA:TWS, a lost, confused and aimless Winter Soldier seeks out the one person in his life who's always given him a mission, and Rumlow decides it's his job to take care of the Asset as he finds his humanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted something a little sweeter than the typical WinterBones fic. Which is not to say this is all hearts and flowers and poetry, but I figure it's as close as I can realistically see to these two having a normal relationship. There's a bit of canon divergence here in that I'm not okay with Rumlow having been turned into a crispy critter at the end of the movie, so I made his injuries a bit less severe. And obviously Bucky's first stop is not the Smithsonian, but I have in my head how that scene could still have happened and line up with the fic if I decide to write it later.
> 
> I leave a lot of things open-ended in this for the reader to make inferences from and for me (if I so choose) to build sequels off of.
> 
> Also, I can't seem to completely eliminate my sense of irreverent humor, so brace yourselves for weirdly placed snarks.

Janine is pretty sure it’s the end of the world, and of course the ER is getting a front-row seat as people in various states of injury flood in. She barely registers all the hype on the TVs scattered throughout the hospital. Something about a government organization and another organization within that and lawmakers “demanding answers” like they always do when the public gets scared.

What’s more disturbing is the guy in her patient’s room that refuses to leave. It’s well after visiting hours, and he won’t prove that he’s related to the patient in any way. He won’t do much of anything, really, but stare at her like he’d like her to drop dead on the spot. Add that to the fact that he looks and dresses like he lives under a bridge, and Janine’s about ready to never pull another night shift ever again.

Still, she does _try_ to be nice. “So, Mr. …uh…?” She looks at him questioningly. He stares at her, shifting slightly. She’s almost positive she heard something mechanical moving under his hoodie. He’s standing next to the patient’s bed like he’s waiting for the man to wake up and demand something. “Okay, then… Well, I’m Jan. You wanna take a seat?”

The man looks to the only chair in the room. He at least understands English. Maybe. Icy blue eyes fix on Janine again, and she’s pretty sure this guy should be in the psych ward. She’s had about enough, though. She can’t check her patient’s vitals with 1995’s last grunge band reject standing so close to the gurney. Janine stalks up to the man, sticking her chin out defiantly and glaring. “Look, buddy. I’ve stuck IVs in patients that were trying to knife me in cocaine-induced psychotic breaks. You will sit your ass down in that chair, or I will have the police come get you.”

Whatever reaction she was expecting, the implacable stare isn’t it. The man seems to hesitate a bit, looking uncertain and glancing at her patient again. Finally, he haltingly shuffles to the chair and sits, still watching her like a hawk.

Janine grabs the patient’s chart and starts taking his vitals and looking over the notes. Fractured radius and ulna. Multiple lacerations to the face, arms, legs… Well, pretty much everywhere. A few second degree burns. Smoke inhala—

“Is he… malfunctioning?”

Janine’s back stiffens at the sudden break in the silence. The strangeness of the question sinks in a moment later, and she turns to look at the man. The guy obviously isn’t all there. But he doesn’t seem to be completely out of his mind, either. “He’s… in-jured,” she says slowly, wondering if the man even understands. He makes no indication one way or the other. “Is Mr. Rumlow a friend of yours?”

Cold blue eyes slide over to the figure on the bed, intubated and silent. Pink lips press together in a line as his brow furrows. “…to the end of the line.” The words are shaky, sound more like a question than an answer.

Janine lightly rests her hand on the man’s shoulder, and it’s unyielding, cool underneath the gray hoodie. _A prosthetic?_ Those bright blue eyes lift to meet hers and she reflects that they look oddly lost and uncertain. “He’s hurt pretty badly, but he’s in stable condition. He’ll get better.”

“I failed.”

The words are so focused and certain that they seem almost like an outburst in spite of the fact that they’re no louder than anything else he’s said. It’s the most certain thing the man has uttered, and he looks scared as hell when he says them. “I’m sure you did all you could.”

He shakes his head, eyes drifting to the floor and oddly crestfallen.

Janine bites her lower lip, starts to leave, then hesitates when she hears a loud grumble. She glances at the man and offers him a gentle smile. “Was that your stomach? I’ll get you something from the cafeteria,” she says. “You can stay here, but don’t go walking around. Visiting hours are over.”

\---=---

It’s been three days, and Janine is pretty sure that her patient’s visitor hasn’t left his side except for bathroom breaks. She’s already had to tell him to shave and shower in the room’s cramped facilities, but otherwise he hasn’t really been a problem. He hasn’t said much since the first day he showed up, but he seems to be getting increasingly agitated, fidgeting in his seat and staring at the vitals monitors.

“He’s getting better,” she offers, pointing at the patient. “See? No more tube. His lungs have pretty well healed. He should be awake in a few hours. We backed off the pain meds.” She’s not sure, but she thinks she sees relief on the visitor’s face. She offers a faint smile. “I’ll go get you something to eat.” Technically, she’s not supposed to be feeding this guy, but she has a feeling he won’t eat otherwise. Whether he just doesn’t know how to get food, can’t get it, or just _won’t_ , she has no idea, but she’s not going to let someone starve to death on her watch. “Back in a few.”

\---=---

The fact that he’s not in a prison hospital when he wakes up comes as a surprise. But the absolute _last_ thing he expects is the sight that greets him when his eyes finally find some bleary degree of focus. He’s not wearing his usual gear, and he’s not looking as typically dead-eyed, but it’s still impossible for Brock to fail to recognize the… ‘person’ he’s been working with for years.

He coughs. His throat feels like a hundred miles of bad road. Come to think of it, so does the rest of him. He can feel bandages taped to his face and arms, and he’s pretty sure the sling is a bad sign. He doesn’t pay it much mind, though. He’s been hurt worse. Order from pain.

Right now, though, Brock Rumlow is more interested to know why the hell the Winter Soldier is sitting in a flimsy plastic chair at his bedside and staring a hole through him. “Uh… Frosty?” No one’s ever told Brock what to call the Asset, and ‘Winter Soldier’ takes too damn long to say. So he’s improvised. He’s pretty sure he has about half a dozen working nicknames for HYDRA’s Fist by now.

The Soldier’s entire body goes from stoic waiting to tense focus, blue eyes flashing as they meet Rumlow’s gaze. “I need orders.”

“Glad to see you, too,” Brock slurs. There must be some good painkillers in the IV. He’d really like to go back to sleep.

A gloved hand that Rumlow knows isn’t made of flesh and blood grasps at his thigh, and he gasps painfully. “I failed.” The Winter Soldier takes a deep, shaky breath, his brow creased, the closest thing to panic Brock has ever seen in his eyes. “I failed the mission. I let him go.”

“Okay, Snowflake… Okay, just… You wanna let go of me? Thanks.” Rumlow takes a deep breath. He’s seen the Asset like this a handful of times: making full sentences, showing actual human emotion, making demands and even decisions not directly related to killing someone. _He’s been out of cryo too long._ But if the Soldier is here and someone hasn’t come for him _or_ Rumlow, there’s a fair bet that things went south for HYDRA. Which means that no one’s going to come along to stick Frosty back in the fridge. Rumlow wonders what happens if the Asset’s out of cryo for more than the four week tolerance. He’s not sure he wants to know. More immediately, though, “Who… Wait. Last mission was...” His drug-addled brain stumbles to remember. _It was Cap._ “You let your target go?”

A jerky nod. “I knew him.” Blue eyes dart around nervously as if he’s expecting a beating. Pierce is nowhere to be found, though.

So, the Asset disobeyed an order. _So much for your fucking mind control, Pierce,_ Rumlow thinks to himself, feeling an odd sort of satisfaction knowing that that goddamn chair didn’t take. Another surge of relief knowing that the Soldier’s not getting wiped again, and that Rumlow doesn’t have to see it or listen to the screams. Then he remembers that there’s still the matter of the Asset slowly going nuts while he’s out of cryo. “You feeling okay, Winter?”

The Soldier looks at him blankly. Feelings aren’t exactly a thing he comprehends.

Rumlow heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Status report, Soldier.”

The command phrase seems to trigger something, and the Asset straightens in his chair a little, his gaze shifting more toward that unnerving, dead look that Rumlow frankly hates. “Functioning…” The rigid discipline in his demeanor fades rather quickly back into confusion. “I… Mission parameters?”

Rumlow’s face twists in a look of exasperation. He’s not sure what to do about this. He’s stuck in a hospital bed, half-conscious at best, and HYDRA’s most deadly weapon is sitting next to him, looking like a lost puppy and asking for orders that Brock doesn’t have. He’s about to tell the Soldier to sit down and shut up so he can go back to sleep when he hears the heavy thump of boots echoing down the hallway. His blood runs cold as he wonders who’s found him first.

“Brock Rumlow?”

He breathes a little easier. They look like SWAT. Considering several alternatives Brock can think of offhand, this is probably the best scenario. He keeps his one good hand where they can see it. “You caught me.” He offers his best irreverent smirk. “Though I don’t think you’re gonna need those pistols.”

The team leader doesn’t seem moved, gesturing to two of the men with him who seem to be toting a military litter. One of them has handcuffs.

The Winter Soldier just watches in confusion for a few moments before he slowly stands up. “You can’t take him.” The words are quiet, but he’s obviously not open to suggestions.

The litter clatters to the floor and the two holding it draw down on the Soldier. “Sit down,” one growls.

Feeling utterly helpless, Brock’s eyes dart around the room, and he wonders how much of a chance he’ll have if he tries to stand up and at least get himself further from the line of fire. “Okay, Winter, why don’t you do what the nice men with guns say?” he says, trying to keep his voice level. “Before they shoot you, and me in the process.”

The Soldier, wild-eyed and breath hissing loudly through his nostrils, _shakes his head_ , _denying an order,_ and Rumlow knows right then that bad shit is about to happen.

“Frosty, maybe you should—“

 _“You… can’t have him!”_ The Soldier snarls, his voice dropping in volume suddenly to a ferocious hiss. “I need him.”

Rumlow allows himself a manic sort of half-smile. “You boys might wanna run,” he slurs, though he sounds more amused than concerned.

The words are barely out of Rumlow’s mouth when the Soldier wades into the middle of them. Bullets fly, ricocheting off the metal arm. Men scream. The Soldier shucks one out of his body armor and cracks his spine over one knee like it’s nothing. That’s all it takes to put them on the retreat, and Rumlow expects the Soldier to hunt them down.

But he doesn’t.

Painkillers are making Rumlow fuzzy, and he’s barely able to process it when the Soldier starts to gently gather him up from the gurney. Rumlow takes his own IV between his teeth and tears it free, as the Soldier doesn’t seem to consider such practicalities. “Wait… Where’re we… I should probably stay…” Rumlow trails off. He can’t exactly stay at the hospital. Someone else—someone probably nastier—will come for him or the Soldier once this story hits the news.

“Somewhere safe.” The Soldier pulls him up in a fireman’s carry, and Rumlow groans miserably as the move aggravates every injury he has.

“I hope to hell you know what you’re doing. Stealth isn’t exactly your thing—ah! Fuck! Easy!” Rumlow growls as his broken arm is jostled roughly, and he sees white for a moment.

“Quiet.”

Now Rumlow _knows_ he’s high as a kite, because the Winter Soldier just gave him an order.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumlow's a surly patient, but Bucky nurses him back to health. And then Rumlow actually does something nice.

Rumlow doesn’t remember passing out, but he wishes as he wakes up that he could go back there. The painkillers from the hospital have obviously worn off. He groans miserably as he slowly opens his eyes, looking around. He recognizes the place fairly easily: cinderblocks, supply crates, one bed shoved into the corner, and a few bare fluorescent lights. It’s one of the sublevel safehouses he and the Soldier used for a mission once upon a time. He’s momentarily straining to remember how he got there.

“Status report?”

If he didn’t hurt from his hair to his toenails, Rumlow’s fairly certain he’d have chuckled at how ridiculous the phrase combined with the almost-concerned tone sounds. His eyes focus loosely on the Winter Soldier, and he wonders if he can even get his point across. “I need painkillers,” he rasps. It’s not something that was ever offered to the Soldier, to Brock’s knowledge, and the furrowed brow confirms his suspicion. “Get the first aid kit and some water. You understand?”

A nod, some momentary scrambling, and then the requested items are pressed into Brock’s hands. There are a few doses of morphine—intended for bullet wounds—and then a wider assortment of aspirin and anti-inflammatories. Brock grabs a morphine vial and a needle and gives himself a cautious dose. He needs his head on straight, and he needs to make sure he has enough to keep the pain from making him delirious, as well. He guzzles most of the bottle of water, his mouth feeling like cotton.

There’s a long, awkward silence, and then, softly, “M… Mission?”

 Brock’s good hand rises to pinch the bridge of his nose, and he sighs. “No. Not… Not right now. Just… Let me sleep, alright?”

The Soldier nods jerkily, settling quietly at the bedside.

“Good.” It occurs to Rumlow that the Soldier might still be useful. “Wake me up every hour and give me a bottle of water. That’s your mission right now. Got it?”

Servos whir as the Soldier shifts uncertainly on the canvas stool he’s pulled up. Being given a mission that doesn’t involve killing someone is something else he’s obviously not overly familiar with. Flesh-and-blood fingers twitch as if aching to pull a trigger or at least hold a weapon, but he finally, slowly nods.

“Alright, then. Better not screw this up,” Rumlow mutters. The morphine is doing its job, though, and he finally gives in and lets himself drift off.

\---=---

Rumlow spends the next several days in a morphine-induced fog, relying on the Soldier for virtually everything… Including help getting to and from the bathroom. Rumlow takes consolation in the fact that he at least doesn’t need help wiping his own ass. At first, it’s just a matter of telling the Soldier what he needs, what to do, but eventually Winter’s gotten entirely autonomous, waking Brock when he needs food or water, changing bandages, even making sure the MRE entrees are nice and hot before he hands them to Rumlow.

On the sixth day, though, the Soldier settles next to Brock’s bedside and stares at him hard. Rumlow’s backed off the morphine, has his head clear, and he meets the brow-furrowed gaze with his own look of worry. “Uh, Winter—“

“That’s not my name.”

The words are so certain and so final that Rumlow’s momentarily dropped jaw flaps a few times before he forcibly shuts it. They’re not the shaky, hoarse words of the shell of a man that is HYDRA’s tortured murder machine. There’s a real person in there, and he’s obviously starting to wake up. “I… Uh, okay.” A long silence, and Rumlow opens his mouth only to be interrupted.

The Soldier stares, trembling faintly, expectant. “Who am I?” he demands through clenched teeth, the words running together as if he’s afraid he’ll lose the courage to ask them.

Brock stares, dumbfounded. He’s seen _cracks_ in Winter’s programming. More than a few. But he’s never seen the Soldier really draw that connection between the fact that he has those cracks and the fact that it’s because he used to _be_ someone. A person. But there’s a light in his eyes and a definite, unwavering _need_ for an answer on his face and—

_“Who am I?!”_ The words are a growl this time, and the Soldier’s starting to look pissed. Like he does when he has a target in his sights.

Rumlow holds up his hand and makes soothing noises, scrunching back into the pillows as the Soldier looms closer. “I don’t know!” he insists, trying not to look as terrified as he feels. In prime condition, Rumlow knows he’d be lucky to be able to run away. As he is now, he’s helpless and uncomfortably aware of the fact that he’s locked in a room with HYDRA’s deadliest weapon, and that said weapon’s not too happy about… well, anything.

Servos whir unnervingly as the Soldier stares at his metal fingers like he’s never seen them before. Finally, his gaze drifts back to Rumlow. “My mission. Who was he?”

That, at least, Rumlow can answer. “I guess HYDRA didn’t teach ya how to use Google, huh?” A sudden twitch on the Soldier’s part makes him flinch. “Easy. Okay… Easy. Captain America.” Winter’s brow creases, and Brock wonders if the answer means anything to the Soldier. “Uh… Captain Steve Rogers?”

That gets a reaction. The Soldier’s eyes widen, and he seems to freeze, like he’s watching the most riveting movie he’s ever seen. “Steve…” He’s definitely not seeing what’s right in front of him as his chest heaves, his eyes wide and frantic.

Rumlow ducks his head as if to try and capture the Soldier’s attention. “…Winter?”

“Stop _calling_ me that!” he roars, raising a metal fist.

Brock’s hand raises and he turns away instinctively, eyes closed, expecting the worse. Several long seconds pass, and all he hears is frenzied breathing and servos whirring, and finally he dares to look at the other man. The deadly metal arm is slowly returning to the Soldier’s side, and his face has gone from rage back to lost uncertainty. Brock doesn’t dare say anything else to the other man, though, certain he’s already come close to getting his skull caved in more than enough times for one day.

Winter’s jaw works, his lips quivering as if he’s trying to figure out how to speak. “He called me Bucky.”

The words come so fast and quietly that Rumlow barely picks them up, but he nods slowly. “Okay… Bucky, then,” he says slowly, watching the other man closely. The Winter Soldier seems to almost flinch in response to being called by his supposed name, and Rumlow edges off the bed, unsteadily taking to his feet in an attempt to put some space between himself and the supersoldier. He doesn’t want to be within easy reach if ‘Bucky’ has a serious break.

“But who the hell _am_ I? _Who?”_ The Soldier’s on his feet, moving toward Rumlow like _he’s_ the mission now, and Brock has gets the very distinct impression of being locked in a cage with a tiger.

“Look… Bucky, we can—“ Brock’s cut off as the Soldier darts forward, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him against the wall. Rumlow cries out as his broken arm is jarred roughly, and he’s pretty sure he’s got a cracked rib now. Metal fingers press into his throat, though, and he’s suddenly far less worried about his ribs as the pressure forces him to gag.

“Don’t… Don’t…!” Bucky growls. “You have to tell me…”

“Tell you what?” Rumlow manages, his voice strangled under the metal hand. Metal edges and perfectly calibrated joints cut into his skin. He knows he could have a crushed windpipe right now, and he’s oddly grateful that _that_ isn’t an immediate concern. “I don’t… _know_ who you are, but… I can help you find out. If you don’t kill me.” That seems to work, as the powerful grip slowly eases, and Rumlow feels his feet touch the floor again as Bucky draws away. Brock coughs a few times, rubbing at his bruised and lacerated neck and wincing as he remembers the ribs. _Because I needed more injuries._ He glances to the Soldier, watching him closely.

Bucky’s staring back, his brow creased, and Brock is fairly certain he sees concern there. Or remorse. Or both. Flesh and blood fingers reach for him, and Rumlow tenses, but the touch is gentle, tracing over the bruised and broken skin of his neck. “I hurt you.” Bucky makes it sound like a revelation, and he looks appropriately troubled by the realization. Brock’s just not sure if Bucky’s freaked out by the fact that he injured his handler or the fact that he’s realizing that hurting people can be a bad thing.

“Not, uh… Not too bad.” Rumlow’s pretty sure that the look of worry in the Soldier’s eyes and the careful contact are at least as unnerving as the violent outburst a moment before. He winces as he draws a deep breath, though. His ribs are at least bruised.

Bucky gestures to the chair he’s been using for the past week, the one parked by the bed. “Sit.”

“Look, big guy, I’ll be—“ Rumlow’s artlessly shoved into the chair, and he doesn’t have the strength or coordination to resist.

Bucky gathers up the first aid kit, long, ragged hair obscuring his face as he hunches over it, picking out the needed supplies.

Brock watches the man work with growing disbelief. The programming is dissolving before his eyes. HYDRA’s fist was never taught any real sort of first aid. He’s a killing machine, not a medic. _Was._ Obviously, he’s more than that now. He’s waking up. Cold metal fingers hook under Brock’s chin and tilt his head back, and Rumlow doesn’t protest as Bucky starts to disinfect the cuts on his throat with an alcohol wipe.

\---=---

It doesn’t take much digging to figure out who “Bucky” is. James Buchanan Barnes. Brock’s watching old newsreels on the safehouse laptop while the Winter Soldier sleeps. He seems to be doing that more than usual lately. Maybe doing so is more appealing when you know you’re not going to be put back on ice for another half dozen years.

Brock shakes his head as the last newsreel plays out. It’s bizarre, seeing what the Winter Soldier used to be: happy, energetic… and apparently Steve Rogers’ best friend. He’s a far cry from the confused, angry, broken creature asleep on the other bedroll a few feet away. Relaxed in sleep, it’s a lot easier to see James Barnes in the Winter Soldier’s scruffy face.

Maybe it’s all the years as the asset’s handler, or maybe it’s just the morphine, but Rumlow’s starting to feel responsible for making sure that Bucky Barnes gets back to the man he used to be. And making sure he stays safe in the meantime.

He stares at the laptop screen, the pile of information he’s gathered so easily. It seems best to give it over a little at a time, save the videos for last. Brock closes the laptop and glances at the Soldier. “First thing you’re getting is your name,” he decides quietly.

\---=---

“James… Barnes.”

Rumlow nods an affirmative, and the Winter Soldier’s brow furrows thoughtfully, his eyes glazing over as he seems to contemplate the name. “You okay, Win—Bucky?” It still feels weird calling the Winter Soldier something so innocuous and near-affectionate as ‘Bucky.’ In Brock’s mind, the man’s still a one-man killing machine, and it’s a bit like naming a crocodile ‘Fluffy’.

“…no.” Troubled blue eyes look up, and Bucky shoves some of his hair behind his ear in the most human gesture Rumlow’s ever seen him make—in person, at least—before inclining his head slightly. “Better, though.” He seems to search his mind for something, staring past Brock’s head for a moment before he makes eye contact again. “Thank you.”

Brock tries to keep from looking utterly dumbfounded. He’s pretty sure he’s never heard the Winter Soldier say those two words before. He reminds himself that it’s probably not the weirdest thing he’s going to hear HYDRA’s Fist say, and nods slowly. “You’re… uh… You’re welcome.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky needs a hug. And he's going to get one, one way or the other.

It’s been a few days, and Brock’s managed to quit taking the morphine, his injuries having faded to a dull ache, letting him think a little more clearly. He’s been slowly feeding the information he’s found to Bucky, and Bucky’s slowly started talking a little more, acting a little more human. He’s even gone so far as to insist on particular MRE menus.

Unfortunately, as Bucky’s mind thaws out, so do all the ugly memories of all the things that have been done to him. He’s woken a few times, yelling for Steve, or muttering his Army serial number, or just screaming in that unnervingly bloodcurdling way Rumlow’s heard too many times before when he was strapped to the chair.

Brock at once pities the man and feels utterly terrified that he’s going to wake up with a metal fist crushing his neck, so the feather touch to Rumlow’s shoulder has him alert instantly. The whir of servos grates against his nerves, and he pushes himself back into the corner that the bed has been shoved into. “B… Bucky?”

The metal arm and blue eyes glint in the dim moonlight coming in through the one tiny window set high in the wall. “I couldn’t sleep.” The words are shaky. He almost sounds scared.

“Oh.” Brock closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, hoping his thumping heart isn’t as loud to Bucky as it is to him. He was momentarily certain that the supersoldier had decided he needed to kill his former handler. “Uh… Well, maybe you could—“ He stops midsentence and yelps in surprise when the other man slides into the bed with him, looping the metal arm around his bare waist—he doesn’t bother wearing a shirt to bed—and pulling him close. “Jesus, that’s cold,” he gasps out, almost forgetting the injuries Bucky’s rankling.

“Nightmares.” Brock feels the scrape of stubble and hot breath on the back of his neck as the Deadliest Man Alive cuddles into him like he’s a giant teddy bear.

“Okay, big guy,” Rumlow soothes, patting the cybernetic limb nervously. He momentarily considers informing his new bedmate that he’s not all about being the little spoon, then realizes that might be a quick way to get dead. Three hundred pound gorillas spoon whoever they want. “I was gonna suggest counting sheep. Also, that arm of yours is cold as fuck.”

“Sorry.” The arm in question just squeezes him a little tighter, and Brock feels the other man’s face burrow more firmly against his neck as if silently begging to stay.

Rumlow sighs, resolving not to complain further. For one thing, he’s pretty sure that if he even implies he wants Bucky to go away, the man’s going to cuddle his spine into powder. For another, it’s been a long goddamn time since Brock last had someone in his bed, and James Barnes is a nice-looking man. They’re going to have to have a talk about who gets to be big spoon, though.

\---=---

It’s been another week, and they’ve fallen into a routine of sorts.

During the day, when he’s not running to the coin laundry or making sure they have enough clothing and supplies, Rumlow carefully spoon feeds information to Bucky, both about the man’s past and about things he knows absolutely nothing about in the present. He introduces James Barnes to new music—The Rolling Stones are an instant favorite—and even a few movies. Rumlow gets a couple of the burner phones out of the supplies in the safehouse and shows Bucky how to use one.

At night, there have been not just a few uninvited cuddle sessions. Brock’s almost taken to looking forward to them, though. He’s also taken to wearing a shirt to bed, since an ice-cold cybernetic limb around his bare waist in the middle of the night isn’t his idea of a good time.

Today, though, Rumlow’s telling Bucky about food. Any good soldier understands good food, and Bucky seems to be no different. A lot of food chains and culinary marvels have happened since Bucky was listed as KIA, and Brock intends to get him caught up now that he’s able to walk more than a few feet without resting or morphine.

“So, people buy twenty ounce sodas… and then drink the whole thing on their own?” Barnes looks utterly perplexed by such a concept, his voice quiet and thoughtful as if it’s the most scientifically profound thing he’s heard recently.

Rumlow can’t help but huff out a laugh. “You should see a Big Gulp. But, y’know, there’re way better things.” He pauses as his stomach gives a plaintive gurgle. “Actually, know what?” He gingerly pushes himself up out of his chair and reaches for his coat. “I think I’ll go get us something. Had enough of MREs, frankly. Haven’t had a good shit in, like, three days.”

That actually elicits the first thing remotely resembling a chuckle from Barnes that Rumlow’s heard, and it’s beautiful and heart wrenching all at once. He actually pauses in the process of buttoning his coat as the other man stands, “I’ll come with you.”

“Sorry, big guy, but that arm of yours is kinda… conspicuous.” Brock feels his heart clench a little at the crestfallen look he’s given, and he reaches out with his good hand to pat Barnes on the shoulder. “Hey, cheer up. It’s gonna be worth the wait.” He glances down at the sling his arm is still resting in. “Hopefully I can figure out how to carry everything. I’ve got my phone with me. Remember how to use yours?”

Bucky’s metal fingers touch the device sitting on the card table next to him, and he nods. “Yeah,” he says, sitting back down.

“Good.”

It doesn’t take long to gather up a couple of pizzas and some fancy coffee, but it feels like forever to Rumlow. He doesn’t like leaving Bucky alone. He’s always afraid the man won’t be there when he gets back. At first, he was afraid that the other man would find someone in SHIELD or a cop or… Well, about _anyone,_ really, and turn him in. Now… Now Rumlow just worries that Bucky might wander off and get lost, or that HYDRA might find him, or that he’ll have a meltdown while Brock’s not there to make him feel better.

Rumlow tries not to think about what that might mean as he fumbles with the load of food he’s carrying and finally sets it on the ground so he can unlock the door. He can’t help but smirk a little as he walks in and sees that Bucky’s set up a game of solitaire on the card table. “Don’t think I’ve seen anyone play that with real cards in a decade or two,” he notes, setting the pizza and coffee down.

The two of them dig in to the food. The pizza’s an immediate hit. The blended iced coffee takes a little bit of getting used to for Bucky, but he ultimately decides he likes it.

“And that’s your lesson for the day,” Brock declares, leaning back in his chair. Glancing at the solitaire game, he moves a couple cards from one stack to the next. “You missed a—move.” Bucky’s fixed him with an oddly intense stare, and Rumlow’s brow furrows. “Bucks?”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, no problem. I needed something different, too.”

“For all of it, I mean. You… You take good care of me.” Those blue eyes seem to lance right through Brock. “You always did. I remember. Even when Pierce beat you for it.”

Rumlow feels like he’s been kicked in the stomach. “You…” With an effort, he draws in a deep breath. “You remember that?”

Bucky nods, stands, and Rumlow can barely follow what happens for a few seconds as he’s gently urged to his feet. His eyes go wide as soft, uncertain lips are pressed to his mouth, and his hand rises instinctively to the middle of Bucky’s chest to push him away, but iron-strong fingers have him by the shoulders. His own fingers tighten in Bucky’s t-shirt, and Rumlow has to force himself to twist his head away from the contact. “Bucks, I don’t think we should do this,” he says, and the look of hurt in those blue eyes is like a knife in the gut.

“I want to.” The objection sounds almost petulant, and he doesn’t let go of Rumlow.

“I don’t think you’re quite—“ He’s released suddenly, and Brock again finds himself cringing away from his charge, but Bucky doesn’t offer to strike him this time. In fact, he’s looking a bit contrite.

“Sorry.” The apology reminds Brock of the first time Bucky crawled into bed with him, and he can’t help the stab of guilt that comes with it.

“It’s… It’s okay.” _More than okay,_ he adds silently to himself, pressing his lips together as he gathers the laptop and moves back towards his bed. “Maybe… Maybe we should just go to bed.” Or, in his case, start trying to find a HYDRA cell to rejoin.

\---=---

A few nights later, Rumlow’s still fiddling with his laptop late into the night, still carefully trying to find a cell to rejoin without alerting HYDRA to his search. He’s not particularly tech savvy, though, and he’s not having much luck. It doesn’t help that he can’t quit rolling the kiss over in his head, the softness of those lips against his. It’s been so damn long since anyone’s touched him for anything other than a corrective beating or to patch him up after a fight that, even knowing that Bucky could just as easily decide to kill him as kiss him, it’s hard to stop thinking about the other man.

Brock finally sighs and closes the laptop, setting it aside and glancing over to the sleeping form on the bedroll nearby. Bucky hasn’t come to him for comfort in the last few nights, and he wonders if the man’s had nightmares and just quietly dealt with them on his own. The thought brings a twinge of pain with it, and Brock rakes his hands through his hair and tries to clear his head, leaning back against the wall and sighing quietly.

The low howl of fear jolts Rumlow awake, and he shakes his head as he takes a moment to realize he’d even drifted off. Bucky’s curled up in a little ball on his bedroll, and Brock scoots toward the edge of his bed before he hesitates. If the supersoldier takes him for an enemy, he’s as good as dead.

A quiet, terrified whimper breaks what little resolve Rumlow has to keep his own hide safe, and he creeps toward Bucky cautiously, hoping he’s not about to earn himself another cracked rib. “Barnes?”

“Bucky,” the man corrects him. Well, that’s a good sign.

“Right.” He squats and hesitantly places his good hand on a tense, flesh-and-blood shoulder. Rumlow surprises himself when he makes a few soothing sounds at the other man. He suddenly realizes how long it’s been since he’s offered someone comfort. Willingly, anyway. “Shh… It’s okay. Just a nightmare.”

“You won’t let him hit me, right?” The words are small, terrified, and don’t seem to match the wall of muscle uttering them.

Brock opens his mouth to ask who, then closes it. Pierce. It wouldn’t be anyone else. But Brock’s been following the news. He can offer some consolation. “He’s dead.” He has to admit to feeling a bit of his own relief at the thought. Having to stand idly by while Pierce manipulates Bucky, praises him in one breath and then brutalizes him a moment later, is something Brock is sure as hell not going to miss.

“Good.”

Bucky turns suddenly, and Rumlow’s heart leaps into his throat as his subconscious tells him he’s been had, but metal fingers reach for him gently. Brock doesn’t get to contemplate what’s happening as he’s almost manhandled onto his back and Bucky presses close, rests his head on his chest and winds the metal arm carefully around his waist. He feels the now-familiar scrape of stubble against his neck as Bucky clings to him like he’s the only handhold to reality in the room.

Brock’s almost asleep when he feels Bucky shift against him, and it’s impossible to mistake what he feels: those soft, perfect lips against his neck. His breath hitches and fingers rise to tangle in wild hair on the pretense of tugging Bucky away, but _damn_ does he ever know what he’s doing, and Rumlow wonders at just what all James Barnes could do with that mouth. The light tug of teeth draws a soft curse from Brock, and he squirms a little under the other man. “Bucks… maybe we shouldn’t…” The weak protest dissolves into nothing as Bucky’s tongue drags along the shell of his ear. He can feel Bucky’s heart, slow and powerful and steady, thumping inside his chest and seemingly shaking Rumlow to his core.

“I want to,” he murmurs against Brock’s skin. The same words, but this time he sounds more resolute, more certain of _what_ he wants.

“Yeah, I know, but you’re not in your right m—“ Lips that are far more purposeful than a few nights before close over Rumlow’s mouth, stifling his words, and Brock groans as the sure muscle of Bucky’s tongue glides along his own.

Brock relaxes for a moment, enjoying the contact, the surprisingly skillful kisses, before he remembers his original objection. He’s not sure how aware yet Bucky is of what he’s doing, and Rumlow can’t quite convince himself it’d be okay to take advantage, tempting as those perfect lips are. “Bucks… Bucky… Barnes! Stop,” he manages thickly between kisses. The other man draws back, brow furrowed, blue puppy-dog eyes pleading. Funny how a fucking killing machine can look like he just needs a hug. “Just… gimme a few days?” He wants to make the right decision, think this through, and that’s not even remotely possible with a half-naked, wicked-tongued supersoldier pressing him into the bedroll.

Bucky nods slowly, looking disappointed but not as hurt as he did the first time. He shifts a little, but doesn’t withdraw completely, resuming his position pressed against Rumlow’s side, his head on the man’s shoulder and arm around his waist.

Realizing he’s not going anywhere for the night, Brock sighs and sags back against the bedding. There are worse ways to sleep than with James Barnes pressed against your side.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's tired of taking no for an answer.

Rumlow nearly jumps through himself when metal fingers snatch the laptop from his hands and put it aside. Apparently, the Winter Soldier can be stealthy as hell when he wants to be. Or maybe Rumlow was just a little too wrapped up in his fruitless searches for HYDRA. Whatever the case, Bucky Barnes is now poised over him, looking for all the world like he’s ready to devour Brock.

Pushing himself away doesn’t do much good, and Rumlow sucks in a breath as his back hits unyielding cinderblocks. “Barnes…” His voice is warning. His broken arm has healed well enough to let him ditch the cast and sling, though he doesn’t know what he could actually do to fend Bucky off. A firm hand in the middle of his chest, pressing him into the wall answers _that_ question: absolutely nothing. Bright blue eyes seem to bore into him, sharp and alive and intent, and Rumlow gets that sense of being locked up with a tiger once again.

Bucky leans in for a kiss, and Brock turns his head away, protest on the tip of his tongue. Metal fingers slide behind his neck, holding him roughly, giving him a slight shake. “Stop it,” Barnes growls, sounding more frustrated than angry. “I want this. I know what I’m doing. Stop it.”

“Fuck! Easy,” Rumlow gasps, but he can’t decide if he’s more scared or turned on. He doesn’t fight this time, though, when Bucky slams their lips together, straddling his hips. Brock lets himself stop worrying about taking advantage of his charge and relaxes into the contact. The kiss is rough, needy, as if Bucky’s trying to make up for the decades he’s been deprived of.

Rumlow meets him with equal fervor, his hands settling on Bucky’s waist and then drifting up his back. The simple touch draws a strong shudder from the supersoldier, and Brock feels powerful thighs squeezing his hips. He draws back to take in the lust-darkened eyes, the perfect red lips parted in a silent sigh, and any worries that Bucky might not be one hundred percent aware of what he’s doing fade away. “Damn, you’re gorge—“

Bucky cuts him off with another kiss, his body molding itself against Rumlow’s, and Brock can’t help but feel certain he’s lost his mind as he parts his lips under Bucky’s, groaning as the supersoldier’s tongue thrusts in, more or less fucking his mouth. Brock’s tongue slides against Bucky’s, and he shudders with pleasure as Bucky sucks on the slick muscle in response. Brock’s hands roam over the planes of taught, powerful muscle as his partner settles against him, and he can feel the evidence of the other man’s arousal pressing against him. Rumlow gladly ruts up against the bulge, and the soft, strangled sound of pleasure the move drives from Bucky goes straight to his dick.

The sensation seems to appeal to Bucky, and he presses in harder, grinding himself eagerly against Rumlow’s own growing arousal. Brock groans softly as the action grates against still-healing injuries. He squirms a little, trying to alleviate the pressure, but Bucky’s hands tighten on his shoulders, pinning him. “Bucks, please,” he breathes, though he’s not sure whether he’s asking for mercy or for more. Bucky shifts, and their cocks press together perfectly through layers of fabric, and Rumlow doesn’t give a damn anymore. His hands grip Bucky’s hips, and he meets each rock of his partner’s hips with his own. Eventually, it’s less pleasure and more teasing, and Rumlow’s grip turns to a push. “Move, dammit. Switch with me, Barnes.” His own voice is so thick he barely recognizes it.

Bucky freezes, drawing back and looking Rumlow in the eye, his gaze distrustful. His fingers tangle in Brock’s shirt as he stares hard into dark brown eyes. “Don’t try to get away.”

“Hadn’t planned on it,” Rumlow answers, reflecting that he actually probably _should_ , but that commanding tone and those fierce blue eyes are definitely making him want to stay. He follows the other man as Bucky eases off of him, urging the supersoldier onto his back. Rumlow’s shirt hits the ground, leaving him in nothing but boxers that do little to hide his arousal as he kneels between Bucky’s knees. A powerful hand is hooked behind his neck and dragging him into another kiss before Rumlow can do anything further, and he groans against pillowy lips as that wicked tongue plunders his mouth yet again. He draws away reluctantly, panting lightly as his hands slide over Bucky’s bare chest, devouring the feel of taut, compact muscle that—if he’s honest with himself—he’s been eyeing for years.

Bucky practically writhes under the touch, obviously long starved for this kind of contact, and Rumlow flicks his thumb over a pert nipple, callused fingertips circling dusky flesh. Barnes whimpers, low and needy, from the back of his throat, arching into the contact, looking at once like he desperately needs it and is  utterly surprised by how good it feels. Unable to resist any longer, Brock slides his hand down the front of his partner’s boxers, and he can’t help an appreciative curse as he watches Bucky’s head arch back, his lips parted in a full-throated moan as Brock begins to stroke.

Flesh-and-blood fingers close almost painfully around Brock’s wrist as Bucky gathers himself and meets his gaze, and the former handler is reminded of who’s really in charge as Barnes rumbles, “Don’t stop.”

“Don’t need to worry about that,” Brock answers with a smirk, reflecting that he should probably be terrified. Instead, he’s just turned on as hell as Bucky guides his hand through a few strokes before letting go again. He pauses only long enough to tug away the supersoldier’s underwear, but still earns a glare for his efforts. Bucky’s full-body shudder implies forgiveness, though, as Brock’s tongue drags over the underside of his shaft, and the soft gasps and whimpers of pleasure that follow as he close his mouth over the throbbing flesh are nothing less than music to his ears.

He listens closely, learning which shifts, which moves draw the perfect response from Bucky, and it’s not long before he has the man moaning with each bob of his head. Metal fingers tangle in his hair, and Rumlow half expects Bucky to take full control and start using his mouth. Instead, Bucky tugs him away, pulling him into a kiss that’s far gentler than he ever would have expected from the other man.

Bucky draws back, bright blue eyes sharp and focused as he searches Rumlow’s face. “Brock.”

Rumlow realizes it’s the first time he’s _ever_ heard Bucky utter his name, and it’s a strangely affecting moment. “Uh… Bucky?” he asks uncertainly, momentarily worried that Barnes is just now realizing what he’s doing and about to tell him to go to hell. His fears are allayed quickly when a sure hand slides down his underwear and wraps around his aching arousal, and he doesn’t have the chance to bite back a soft, shaky groan as Bucky’s fingers start to slide gently over his dick. “...Bucky… son of a bitch…”

Soft lips press against his neck, moving up to his ear where teeth and tongue join the fray to drive Rumlow positively insane. Between Bucky looking at him like he’s the most perfect thing in the world and the things he’s doing with his hand and his mouth, Rumlow almost doesn’t register what’s purred against his ear, “Want you inside me.”

Brock draws back to look at the other man with undiluted surprise, but there’s no hesitation whatsoever in those shimmering blue eyes. He’d expected a quick, fumbling tryst, not… “Are you—“ He stops himself mid-sentence. _Of course he’s sure._ He realizes after a moment that they’re going to need lube, and that’s not exactly something HYDRA leaves laying around in their safe houses. Rumlow manages to talk Bucky into letting go of him for a few moments and stands, walking out of his boxer briefs as he moves to dig through the medical supplies, locating a bottle of lotion without too much trouble.

It’s like watching live porn as Brock gently works the other man open. Bucky’s writhing and arching against the bed like he can’t be touched enough, cock dripping over tense abs as he quivers with need. Rumlow licks his lips, watching Bucky’s face as his fingers work their way into the supersoldier to find that perfect spot inside him, and the look of astonished pleasure the touch elicits is enough to make Brock feel half-desperate, himself.

“More, Brock,” Bucky finally murmurs, so softly it’s almost inaudible.

Rumlow’s fingers withdraw, and he’s shifting to kneel between Bucky’s legs when powerful hands seize him by the arms, switching their positions again. He’s about to point out that he can’t really oblige Bucky’s earlier demand when the supersoldier straddles his hips. _Oh._ _Right._ The thought that _he’s_ supposed to be the one on top dissipates quickly as Bucky slicks some lotion over Rumlow’s cock and begins to settle over it. Bucky’s grip on his arms loosens, and Brock grabs onto the other man’s thighs for dear life as it becomes his turn to arch against the sheets. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he manages, his toes curling as the other man’s hips settle flush against him.

Bucky leans forward and presses his lips to the side of Rumlow’s neck, nibbling at his ear again as he murmurs, “You feel good.”

“F-feeling’s mutual,” Brock rasps, shifting impatiently under his partner. “You can... you can move anytime now.”

A nip at his skin drives a soft, pleasantly surprised gasp from Rumlow. “When you ask nicely,” comes the soft growl.

Brock’s pretty goddamn sure he shouldn’t be getting off on being pinned down and told to beg by a man he’s seen rip people in half bare-handed, but that hot, breathy rasp against his ear makes him quickly forget just why he should care. “C’mon, Bucky,” he growls, sounding a little frustrated, but he can hear the desperation in his own voice. “Please…”

Apparently satisfied, the supersoldier rocks his hips slowly, and Brock moans as Bucky’s tongue drags a hot trail up his throat. Bucky rides him slowly at first, and Brock gets lost in meeting each shift. His hands trail over every bit of the powerful body on top of him, his lips tasting everything within reach, driving the other man to move faster and moan louder until they’re both nothing but sweat and animal need and groans and low exclamations of pleasure.

Bucky cums first, but only barely as Brock follows him over the edge, toes curling as he arches under his partner and growls out his pleasure between clenched teeth. The release is white-hot, perfectly intense and something Brock’s been needing far more than he’s realized.

Bucky settles in a sweaty pile beside him as Brock catches his breath, arm still flung across his waist as Rumlow pants for air. “That was nice. Thanks,” he murmurs, actually smirking a little.

Brock does a double-take. The shy, sweet smile on Bucky’s face is enough to make his still-pounding heart skip a beat. “I—“ He’s interrupted with a kiss again, but this time it’s oddly gentle, almost chaste, and he looks even more confused as Bucky draws away. He barely has the presence of mind to whisper, “welcome,” as Bucky settles against him with an oddly blissful look.

Rumlow tangles his hand in the Winter Soldier’s hair and stares at the ceiling as he listens to the man’s breath slowly level off into the rhythmic pattern of sleep. He’s felt responsible for Bucky since the day he became the man’s handler.  He’s starting to think he feels a bit more. Sleep beckons, but one thing keeps nagging at him: If he finds HYDRA and goes back, he’ll have to give them Bucky.

His eyes drift down to the man pressed against him. He can’t give them Bucky. For a lot of reasons. But mostly because Brock can’t handle the idea of losing Bucky’s smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for now, folks, but there may be a sequel (I make no promises)!
> 
> Meantime, if you need more WinterBones goodness from the likes of me, [check this out](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2449439).


End file.
